Target of One's Own

by M. L. Buchman

  And the food could kill a man with happiness. The bivouac mess had served truly impressive platters of lomo saltado. The grilled sirloin beef was stir-fried with onion, pepper, soy, and yellow Peruvian chilis. The spicy chicken stew, aji de gallina, was so good that he just might have to learn how to cook so that he could eat it in the states.

  Through it all, Zoe had been pleasant but a mile away. She stayed close to her father and it was a space that Luke didn’t dare invade. No matter how tiring the stage, they often worked on the car together with Ahmed. She wholly entrusted him to work up the Road Book—which made it a lonely task.

  Stage Twelve had left behind the greenery of Arequipa very quickly. The Selective Section was their most varied stage yet. Up ash hills, down off-piste wilderness that threatened to shatter the car and their bodies just from the shaking. A small but particularly vicious set of dunes added variety before they climbed once more into the foothills.

  They were racing along a narrow cleft that some ancient river had carved through the stone—a tortuously twisted path.

  “Zoe?”

  “Not now!” She snapped out.

  “If not now, when?” It just burst out of him as he called the next turn. He was either about to fight her or blow this all to hell, but he didn’t know how much more he could take of her silence.

  “How about when I’m trying to not kill us?” She dodged a boulder, rode two wheels up and over a rubble pile where part of the sheer wall had collapsed onto the course, then gunned it down a narrow gut with no turns for a few hundred meters.

  “Right. Sorry.” And she was right. He announced the next turn, even though they could both see it coming.

  She had to let there be a time. Now wasn’t it, but she had to get over herself and just do it.

  At the end of the straightaway, she downshifted hard and was preparing to gun into the corner when Luke called out.

  “Smoke!”

  Black smoke billowed skyward from just around the corner. She pulled back a gear, then another. She crawled around the curve and still was barely slow enough to not run over the man lying in the middle of the track.

  He lay sprawled on his stomach. The marks in the sand showed that he’d crawled from his car. The blood on his face made him unrecognizable.

  The gas tank must have breached moments earlier and the car was fully engulfed in flame. Zoe knew from her dad that gas tanks didn’t just explode like in the movies, but they could make lethal fires.

  Killing the engine, she and Luke rushed forward to drag the man farther away from the blazing car. There was no sign of his co-driver.

  A brief flutter in the flames, and she spotted the car number. Another US driver, Bernie Cole.

  The car that had burned the first day, Andy and Jim Kyle’s car burning in Stage Two, the unusual failures of the two motorcycles, the car frame failure, and now Bernie. All registered as entries from the US.

  It wasn’t chance.

  “Bernie! Bernie! Can you hear me? Did you see who did this to you?”

  Luke was trying to staunch the flow of blood and went shock still for just an instant, then continued his efforts with a sharp curse.

  “Bernie? Did you see?” It was a cruel question, his eyes were gone, burned from their sockets. What she’d initially taken for blood all over his face was the black of burns and char.

  “Bernie!” She shouted it to avoid being sick. How far had she gone around the bend that she was begging a dying man to help her?

  He croaked out a noise.

  “Again, Bernie,” she leaned her ear close to his mouth. She took his hand, at least it was only bloody and not burnt.

  “Man,” he croaked softly.

  “A man,” which was no help at The Dakar where it was ninety-nine percent male. “What did he look like? Help me, Bernie.”

  “Silver,” he gave a struggling gasp. “Man,” was the last word he was ever going to say.

  She held his hand as one of the race helos came screaming in overhead. It seemed only moments before Bernie was whisked away on a stretcher and the helo was aloft again. Another came in and disgorged men in firefighting gear with tall extinguishers.

  They were sent back to their car, “Get moving. Get back in the race. You arrived after the accident, so we can wait until after today’s stage to take your statements.”

  Zoe put it in gear, eased around the fire dying under the blast of the big extinguishers. She slowly worked her way back up to speed, but she felt as numb as she had on that stage after Luke had dumped her past on her father.

  “The compound,” she finally managed as they rolled into the end of the Selective Section and handed over their timecard. Thank God there was no Road Section today, the Selective Section ended close by the night’s bivouac.

  Luke nodded. “Hathyaron knows it was US forces that went into his compound.”

  “So he’s killing all of the entries from the United States, but why?”

  “In case they— In case we followed him this far.”

  “So he’s just knocking every US entry out of the race—cars, quads, trucks, and motorcycles? But he’s never killed before. Maybe that was an accident and he didn’t mean to kill Bernie.”

  Luke’s silence was the only reply that was necessary. Then he leaned forward as if looking up at the sky.

  “He saw our drone—he’d know to look for it and it’s not invisible. He knows we’re after him.”

  “And he can’t just quit and run because he knows that we’d be on him in a flash.”

  Zoe eased into the lane and idled her way toward their camp. She parked and turned off the engine but made no move to get out.

  Luke waited her out.

  She rubbed a thumb at the dried bloodstains on her hands. Bernie Cole’s blood. “Why hasn’t he come after us?”

  “Maybe because you don’t look like a Spec Ops soldier?” Luke shrugged. “Or maybe we’re next.”

  32

  “At least there are only two stages to go,” Luke consoled himself as he tried to find the energy to eat. The price was so high.

  It had been just a standard—well, perhaps not so standard—mission. But Hathyaron had just made it personal. Yes, his operation had to be taken out, torn up by the roots and shredded. But Hathyaron himself was going to go down and go down hard.

  Too bad Cole’s dying words about the “silver man” hadn’t helped. There were no silver-painted vehicles still in the race. No one was named silver or wore a silver racing suit. There were some older racers, not many, but none had hair that would be called silver. Salt-and-pepper, gray, white, bald. No help.

  “Actually, there’s really only one more stage,” Christian spoke up. “Stage Fourteen, the final stage, has only a very short Selective Section. It is still a race, but very few changes in the standings happen there. It is more of a parade. No, it is tomorrow’s long Stage Thirteen through the Peruvian Andes and down to the beach that will almost assuredly decide the race.”

  Which meant that tomorrow was their last real shot at finding Hathyaron. Something they were no closer to achieving than three days ago. The Activity had come up blank. Hathyaron had erased his tracks so thoroughly that they might as well be starting with the world’s population of seven billion to track him down.

  Luke considered burying his face in his plate of rice and shrimp. The tiny town of Nazca couldn’t put on a show that could touch a big city like Arequipa, but their food was still damned good. He could tell that, even though he could have eaten cardboard tonight and not noticed.

  “Luke?” It was a soft voice, in a tone he hadn’t heard in almost a week. A voice that stole his breath.

  He turned to look at Zoe, something he’d trained himself not to do anymore because it hurt too much.

  “I’ve got to talk to you,” she tipped her head out toward the far side of the bivouac.

  He nodded carefully. As he rose to follow her, he glanced at Nikita to see if she had any guidance. She only offered an infinites
imal shrug—perplexity rather than resignation, but still no real help.

  Once they were well clear of the group, Zoe came to a stop. Luke estimated they were almost exactly the same distance from their camp as when she’d delivered the news that had shattered her father’s life.

  “I—” he had to try. “I’m so sorry, Zoe. I swear I’d take it back if I could.”

  She nodded sadly without looking up.

  He couldn’t find any more words, so he simply stood and ached that it was no longer his place to console her.

  “I have an idea. It could get me thrown out of the military, but I still think it’s a good idea.”

  “No! You can’t do that!” He had no idea what her idea was, but that was so wrong. “You belong there as much as Nikita. As much as I do!” Picturing Zoe going civilian was the worst thing he could imagine. “You aren’t that fluff ball, Tweety Bird Soldier of Style you show everybody. You’re so much more than that. You’re—” Then she gave him a look that told him to shut the hell up. He could only bite his tongue hard at the restraint she’d just placed on him, but he was going to have his say before this was done.

  “But I think it’s worth the risk because it might help us find Hathyaron. Also there are still two other US teams out there. We can’t risk another innocent,” she kept rubbing at her hands even though Cole’s blood had long since been washed off.

  How did she remain so steady? She was a warrior. Well, so was he, damn it. He took one deep breath and refocused on the mission, then nodded for her to go ahead. She could talk all she wanted, but she wasn’t risking her career. No way was he letting her just hop out of his life like—

  “I’m going to tell Liesl who I really am.”

  Luke shrugged, “She already knows. She just isn’t using it.”

  “I guess I knew that. I mean that I’m going to have Liesl report on who I really am. I’m going to give her the interview she’s been begging for by being nice enough to not beg. I won’t divulge any secrets or break my officer’s oath, but anything short of that is up for grabs.”

  “Why? Wait…” If Zoe told the media who she was, it wouldn’t blow her career—it would fucking nuke it out of existence. Probably get her a dishonorable discharge. Spec Ops served at a whole different level than normal soldiers.

  However, if she did publicize who she was, Hathyaron would hear about it. He wouldn’t be able to help it—Zoe was the talk of race. Luke had descended to pushing Christian to the fore at every opportunity until most people would just assume he was Zoe’s co-driver rather than Luke. But Zoe stood front and center.

  If Hathyaron heard that Zoe was a Spec Ops soldier, would it spook him? Damn straight. But it would also give him a target—Zoe DeMille.

  “You’re leaving him only two choices,” Luke rolled the idea around, but only found two possible outcomes.

  “He drops out of the race at this late date…”

  “Telling us exactly who he is,” Luke finished her sentence. “Or…”

  “He’ll come after me,” she finished his.

  “You’re willing to set yourself up as bait? There’s an old saying in Maine about how it never seems to work out well for the bait.”

  “No,” she brushed a hand over his crossed arms. Just the lightest of touches, there and gone, but it steadied him more than anything else in a week. “No, I’m setting us up to be bait. And I’m banking on you protecting me.”

  “With my life!” And he absolutely meant it.

  33

  “This is Liesl Franks with Reuters, reporting from the heart of the Dakar Rally, the greatest car race of them all, with an exclusive report.”

  They were all crowded around the laptop. Zoe still wasn’t used to watching herself on the screen. She’d never gone back and looked at her own online media vlogs once she was sure they were posed the way she’d wanted. If someone had The Dakar Rally news running and one of her interviews came up, she’d made a point of moving on quickly.

  This time she watched intently over Christian’s shoulder. Her father stood to one side, with his arm hugging her around the shoulders. Nikita and Drake stood between her and Luke. Liesl was there as well, studying the broadcast as it came out.

  “We all know about the most unusual performance in recent Dakar Rally history, the astonishing race being run by Zoe DeMille. In her rookie season—in any rally racing—she is not only the top-ranked Rookie, she’s top three in the cars classification.”

  “Hey, you didn’t mention me or my car,” Christian piped up.

  Everyone shushed him.

  “It’s my goddamn car,” Christian grumbled, but everyone ignored him. Zoe had insisted that he not be mentioned, not in this interview. She wanted to protect Christian as much as possible from what was coming next. No one knew what that was except Luke and Liesl.

  “Today I confirmed another startling fact about Ms. DeMille’s past, or should I say, her present. And I’m hoping to confirm it with Ms. DeMille herself in this exclusive interview.”

  Several people in their group glanced her way. Zoe ignored them.

  The camera pulled back to reveal a very serious Zoe standing beside her. Her hair, rather than falling in its normal ripples down to her shoulders, was pulled back in such a severe ponytail that she almost didn’t have hair at all. No thick-rimmed sunglasses, she’d borrowed Luke’s mirrored Ray Ban aviators, which were too big for her face. You could see the camera reflected in them as if she was part cyborg. She’d opted to retain the yellow racing suit, zipped up to choke-her high. She looked dangerous, which was a good trick when she was only five-four, but Liesl had a good man working the camera.

  “Thank you for your time, Ms. DeMille. Are you enjoying the race?”

  “Oh yes. There are such fantastic competitors, they’ve just been great. And the challenges that the race committee set out have been beyond demanding. I just love this kind of driving.”

  “And you’re very good at it.”

  “Thanks!” Merry, happy, everyone’s friend Zoe DeMille was about to go away.

  “Ms. DeMille, I recently found out that you have a very interesting day job.”

  “What have you heard?” Zoe had shut it down hard. Listening now, she sounded too severe. For a lack of any better idea, she had tried her best to sound like Luke. Her voice wasn’t much lower, but the words were sharper, clipped until they were no more than honed, rapid-fire projectiles.

  “Is it true that when you aren’t driving at The Dakar, you work for the United States Army?”

  Zoe had paused a long moment before snapping out an uncharacteristic monosyllable, “Yes!” At least uncharacteristic for her persona.

  It was such a contrast to her earlier interviews—the bright and ever-cheery-no-matter-how-she-actually-felt The Soldier of Style—that it should really catch everyone’s attention. That had been one of Liesl’s suggestions on how to make the interview more memorable.

  “And not just your average position either, but rather an officer in military intelligence?” She was a chief warrant officer, and she hoped that Command—who were sure to see this—would forgive her Luke’s suggested white lie. She wasn’t technically in an intelligence branch of the service, but her drone certainly was a tool for tactical intelligence even more than it was a lethal weapon.

  “I’m unable to confirm or deny that information,” her voice now carefully deadpan.

  “I understand that you work for an unnamed agency who is deeply involved in supporting Special Operations Forces.”

  Nikita and Drake gasped in surprise at the on-air revelation.

  Her father and Christian spun to look at her.

  She stared at the screen as she’d stared at the camera during an intentionally over-protracted silence—could feel that her lips and her expression were just as tight now as they were on her on-screen persona.

  “We’re done here!” she’d finally snapped out, then stalked off-camera as if immensely irritated. And she had been irritated. She might
as well have admitted to being a foreign spy who was operating in a friendly country without permission. Then, and now watching herself, Zoe could feel viscerally just how much she was risking. Thrown out of the military, her working relationship with Luke and Nikita and all of the others would be cut off. She’d known it would be a risk, but if she caught Hathyaron with the trap, maybe it would be worth it.

  By airing the interview just before the start of the stage, it wouldn’t give the wheels of injustice enough time to chew her up, but now she felt a cold chill radiating from the Pentagon already. The possibility of losing her career felt painfully real.

  “Yes,” Liesl continued on screen. “Never a dull moment here at the magnificent Dakar Rally. This has been Liesl Franks reporting for Reuters from Nazca, Peru. Next up, our coverage of the start of Stage Thirteen, the penultimate stage of this brutal two-week challenge.”

  Everyone starting asking questions at once.

  She glanced over at Luke.

  He offered her a single nod—it just might have been respect.

  If Hathyaron was out there listening, she’d certainly lit the fuse. Now to see where the explosion hit.

  34

  Luke was having a very hard time not smiling. It was as if someone had jammed a cattle prod up the entire event’s backside. Or maybe an armed explosive that had no visible timer.

  The crew in the next pit over, who’d been as friendly as any seasoned racer ever was with a high-performing rookie, had lowered a curtain of silence as certainly as if it was made of steel.

  The Brigade had all saluted her in unison as she’d rolled by them. Most of them were sloppy civilian attempts, but he saw several that appeared authentic. The other media cameras were positioned to eat it up. Liesl was among them, but she was filming the crowd’s responses whereas most of the others were filming Zoe. Luke made sure to keep his head tilted down so that no one got a decent angle on his face past the brim of his helmet.